On A Different Field. (Goodnight Moon) [Composition-al]

Goodnight moon

I hope to see you soon.

Through the rubble of the earth

And the cheap polished wood casket.

​

The smell of black powder still hung in the

air.

My body’s cavities, perforated by steel.

The blood lust of these men who didn’t

care

about themselves,for they lay here with

me.

We could seem lifeless

I cant talk, but I can still sense.

My petrified shell carried, buried, burned,

forgotten, flamed.

There were few words, yet it uttered a

millennia of diaries.

​

I wish the guns/bullets were rubber, fewer

hits, less critical damage.

Then I wouldn’t be lying here dead,

regretting the current events.

I wish I could open my eyes again.

Oh , they are.

Just hanging upon the terror it has

witnessed.

This flesh filled orbs froze on a

terrifying frame.

​

Could anyone move my body?

Maybe face my eyes on a crisp

horizon. Until then I can only see '

the clouds wave their accumulated

droplets at me.

Are they corpses too?

Just floating in the air? Absorbing

moisture.

I can hear someone breathe from afar

Without the prejudice of a gun.

Scratches of paper, scribbles.

A writer? A reporter?

In a middle of a massacred ring of hell?

Why is this entity here?

​

He scrabbles off his neck and i feel

sweat cascade like waves, I never see the hue of

his skin.

​

He clears his throat, it reminded me of my

father-in-law. My wife will mourn me like I

did, the day I destroyed her gardens.

Her flowers.

​

He prepares a sonnet. Now is not the

appropriate time. But when will it be?

Not with the necromantic mist he engulfs in the air.

​

If only these dry lips could welcome him,

or at-least warn him of the plague that our

bodies cover.

​

Stranger, this is not your hellhole.

Your history is not laid out across the skies for

me to rate, and for you to conclude your

end inside.

​

He whispers to the horizon, with a cute

portrait, “Do you care about the burned

caramel powder foundation for your

cheeks? Or the scars on both cheeks,

covered by same powder?"

​

[Our existence is a question. When our life is standard, we question the norm, with a conviction that everything is perfect. Somehow perishing is the answer, the end of sentences, and the final flourished finality. Do you see it now? The shadow and light converging across your face?]

​

I always finish with a question.

I never finish with an answer that’ll satisfy your heart

• [ ]

Feedback One

Feedback Two